Not Enough
by King Zoe
Summary: Roger is going through a very frightening withdrawal. Mark and Maureen have an important decision to make. Rating for language.


_Note: This takes place about 6 months (or slightly less) prior to the play. Assumes that Roger stayed at the loft for his rehab, and was cared for by Mark. Also assumes that there were points at which Roger was unable to control himself in his efforts to get something to take the edge off the withdrawal symptoms, and that things sometimes got a little out of hand. Was co-authored by Lady Sarai, who is utterly brilliant. I recommend all of her works._

_Dislcaimer: This is a work of love, not profit. As much as I adore Jonathan Larson's characters, they are owned by the Larson estate - not me._

_**Not Enough**_

Mark looked tired. Maureen watched him over the top of a book she had borrowed from Collins. Something about some guy called Zarathustra. He'd said it might ground her a bit. And then he'd left for MIT. Out of spite, Maureen had refused to return the book, saying he'd have to come back for it if he wanted it so much. He'd laughed, saying he'd return – if only for Nietzsche. God, she missed him.

She watched Mark settle on the other end of the couch, curled around his cup of coffee – the only drug in the loft. They'd even got rid of the cold medicines and painkillers in the bathroom. Mark had said it would be easier to buy the stuff in single packs as needed than to monitor Roger constantly in case he got desperate. Maureen hated buying Midol in the single packs. The asshole kid at the little store down the block leered at her every time she came in now.

"Long night?"

Mark glanced up at the question, as though suddenly becoming aware of her presence. His shoulders drooped as he nodded tiredly. "Yeah. It was… Well, you know."

She knew. She'd been awake for most of it, listening to Roger rage on the other side of the bedroom door while Mark tried to calm him and convince him that the last thing he needed was another fix. She'd been awake when the argument turned into a fight, and one of them – she thought Mark from the sound – had been thrown against the wall that separated their bedroom from the rest of the loft. She'd been awake when Mark finally came to bed, bloodied and bruised, but victorious, having finally convinced Roger to go to sleep. She remembered asking him if he was sure Roger was asleep, and if he'd remembered to lock the door. He was, and he had. Both of them.

And now he sat on the other end of the sofa, staring moodily ahead at Roger's closed bedroom door. They'd drilled out the lock the first time he'd shut himself in and refused to come out unless they brought him "just enough to take the edge off." She glanced up at the padlock on the sliding steel door that led out of the loft. Still there. Good. She laughed a little to herself. Not many people actually locked themselves _into_ their apartments. Not many people had Roger.

And now Mark was staring at her. She met his gaze evenly. "What?"

Mark sighed and glanced away, balancing his coffee cup on the arm of the sofa. He set his shoulders as though bracing himself for a fight before meeting Maureen's eyes again. "Mo… I think…" He closed his eyes, steeling himself for her reaction to whatever it was he was going to say. "I think you should move out."

Maureen waited for the "just kidding" or "NOT!" It didn't come. She glared back at him. "Are you high?" she demanded irritably. "I thought it was just Roger we were watching out for. Don't tell me _you've_ taken up acid or something."

Mark sighed, rubbed his eyes. "Maureen. I'm serious. I'm sorry."

"Fuck you! Fuck your 'sorry!' Why the Hell am I moving out?"

He looked hurt. "I just… I think it's for the best. I can't think of any other… It's not safe here, Maureen."

She rolled her eyes. "And where exactly _would_ I be safe, oh Wise and Wonderful Mark Cohen?"

"Maureen,_please_. Do you really think I _want_ you to move out?"

"You put up a pretty _damn_good impression of it. You know, when you said 'I think you should move out.'"

He made a low exasperated noise in the back of his throat. "Fine. Whatever. Look, I'm just trying to protect you, all right?"

Maureen snorted. "What, from that?" She gestured sharply at Roger's bedroom door. "I think I can take care of myself. That's why we lock the goddamn bedroom door, Mark!"

"That's not ENOUGH, Maureen!" he yelled in frustration, slamming a fist down on his thigh. The swift motion upset the balance of the – now forgotten – coffee cup. It fell to the floor and shattered. Neither of them made a move to clean it up. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry… It's just... I don't know what he's capable of, Mo, and I can't..." He shook his head, trailing off.

Maureen sat, stunned for a few moments. It was rare to see Mark lose control so completely. "Oh, honey…" She scooted to his end of the sofa to curl up against him.

He put an arm around her. "I worry about you. I don't…" He shook his head again. "If anything ever happened to you, Mo, I... I don't even know."

"Nothing's going to happen to me, Mark."

He laughed bitterly. "You don't know that. You _can't_ know that. _I_ can't know that, and I just… I need to_know_ you're safe."

"Marky… I'm _safe._ Roger's my friend. We're all _friends._ Why would he hurt me?"

Mark turned her so that he was looking into her face. "What? Are you _kidding?_" He stared at her incredulously. "_Look,_ Maureen!" He rolled up a sleeve. "_I'm_ Roger's friend, but… Just look."

Mark's forearm was lined with a four dark bruises, exactly as though someone had gripped his arm tightly enough to leave a mark in the shape of a human hand. One with the long fingers of a guitar player.

Maureen gasped quietly. "Oh, Mark… You're not telling me Roger… But…" She frowned up at him.

Mark smiled softly. "What did you think, Mo? That we were playing football out here last night?"

"No, but…" she bit her lip. "I… I guess I didn't think… Is it that bad?"

"I think it's going to get worse before it gets better," he murmured quietly, stroking her hair.

"You do?"

He nodded. "And… Do you really want to know what I think?"

"Yeah."

He sighed heavily. "I'm worried. I never know what's going to happen, or what he'll do, and... What if something happens to me and I can't protect you? If we forgot to lock the door one night? If... What if he goes off, and I'm not _here_ and you _are_? I couldn't take it, if something happened to you."

Maureen frowned. She was losing, and she knew it. She hated losing arguments to Mark. "But… Mark, you can't take care of him by yourself."

A pained look crossed his face. "I _have_ to. And…" He smiled apologetically. "I can't take care of him _or_ me if I'm always worried about you."

She sighed. "If you weren't being so goddamn noble and self-sacrificing, I'd want to punch you right now."

"Lucky for me."

"So I guess I'm looking for a new place? Can I at least come and visit? Bring you groceries?"

He laughed, hugging her tightly. "Please! You know we never have anything to eat here!"

Maureen laughed along with him. "Ok, baby, but you're helping me sift through the Classifieds. God, I hate apartment shopping."

Mark groaned. "I was afraid you'd say that."

_finis._


End file.
